


Had We But World Enough And Time Lords.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Highlander: The Series, Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-31
Updated: 2009-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:10:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Harkness couldn't go unnoticed by the Watchers forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had We But World Enough And Time Lords.

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the title is taken from To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell.

_But at my back I always hear  
Time's winged chariot hurrying near_   
-Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress   


"So there I was, France, 1922," Harkness said. "And then you walk into my life." He upturned his glass. "So."

"I was in Egypt in 1922," Methos said. He'd long lost his objections to this. It was late, Harkness was steadily drinking more and more, and if the worst happened, well, he'd gotten out of worst spots before. "I saw out the decade there."

"Never met up with you there," Harkness paused, then went on. "Yet. This is your first time around, isn't it?" He dropped his head down to his hand and cursed. "I hate timelines. Have you at least met the Doctor yet?"

Methos swore, too, louder and longer. "Yes." He left it at that.

"Gets under your skin, doesn't he?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"So he did, then." Harkness leaned back, looking satisfied.

Methos shrugged, trying for casual. "I thought him dead, only to see him come back. In my life, when you see that, you run."

"He caught up with you?"

"Eventually." Methos circled his finger around the edge of his glass. "You?"

"The Blitz," Harkness said cheerfully. "Took me on a wild ride. But you," Harkness pointed his index finger at Methos, "you are a strange case."

"Oh?"

"Yes. See, I'd asked him about other kinds of immortality. And he went on about it, as he does--"

Methos muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.

"And he never mentioned your type."

"Slipped his mind, I'm sure." Methos said. "We did not part well. I doubt I'm the only one he's forgotten."

"He left me behind," Harkness said shortly.

"Voila."

"Sometimes I think there should be a club."

"Not much call, I'd think. He seemed a loner." Or the type to force everyone away before they got too close, Methos did not add.

"Not when I met him. There was a girl."

"That's not surprising." Methos finished off his drink. "Even in my day, star travelers were notorious."

"Your day?" Harkness poured him another. "No, let me guess. You seem British, so...17th century?"

Methos smirked. "Not exactly." He saluted Harkness with the glass. "The first story I heard, well, it was told somewhat like this. There were two of us, it was late and we were drunk. We traded stories about the gods who lived between the stars." He downed the shot. "Even in the dark ages, we knew what kept gods warm on long nights."

Harkness had the blank look that meant he had been shocked. "And that is?" he asked, begging for time to recover his wits.

Methos waved it away. "The usual. These days, it would probably be blondes."

"That part's right, at least," Harkness muttered.

Harkness sounded like he spoke from expertise. "Enlighten me."

Harkness leaned back in chair. "It's been years since I've told stories around a campfire. How should I start? 'Hear, O king'?"

Methos shrugged.

"Alright." Harkness said. "Hear, O King, the story of the Doctor. Stop me if you've heard this one."

 

\---

 

Two weeks before, Methos kept a blank expression on his face as he looked over the file the senior researcher tossed onto his desk. He had been reorganizing his books in an effort to keep himself amused between assignments and the shadow from the towering stack covered half of Jack Harkness's face.

"Harkness is an odd one." Methos agreed, scratching the inside of his left wrist through his sleeve. "But we're dead records. Why are we interested in him?"

"Because we need a case file for a dead man." Vincent placed two photographs side by side on the table. "This was taken thirty years ago, this one yesterday, and we might have one in the archives from the war."

Methos bent down to get a better look at the photos. "Died this morning, then?"

Vincent shook his head. "Espionage," he said quietly, and then hummed the James Bond tune. "Treat him like he's dead, build the dead file. We'll update it as we're able, but for now, we only need to start a file."

"I see." Methos studied the photos, paying careful attention to Harkness's features. The man had made no attempt to age himself. Ah, the arrogance of youth. "Has he ever officially died?"

"We don't know." Vincent checked over his shoulder that the door was closed. "No idea. He's not in the game, no heads that we know of. It's only luck that we got this far. He's a blank slate, Pierson. It's your lucky day."

"Lucky me," Methos muttered. He moved the photos around, and tapped the older one with his index finger. "This won't get me killed, will it?"

"We're pretty sure." Vincent gave Methos a reassuring smile. "Pierson, we believe in your abilities and know that you will solve this case. You're the best researcher free right now, the best one for the job. We wouldn't pick anyone but you."

In other words, Methos missed the staff meeting when they were to have drawn straws. But Vincent was right, he did get lucky. Meeting with Harkness wouldn't be a risk. He may not be able to say the same about the next target that could have crossed his desk. "Do I get anything else, or am I to go into the lion's den alone and unarmed?"

Vincent handed over another manila folder without opening it. "Read this and then misfile it." He bared his teeth in what did not pass as a smile. "Remember, make contact when you're ready and not before. We want a case history, not a dead body."

"Right," Methos said, and waited until Vincent left the room before flipping the folder open and looking through it.

He skimmed over the brief physical description, but took his time with the assessment. Contact with this one would not be a problem; Methos had heard of Harkness and his condition. _Not one of us,_ was the underground consensus, although what Harkness was had never been adequately explained. For most of his kind, if they couldn't behead it, it didn't matter. Harkness couldn't even take a quickening. He wasn't a threat.

Methos knew what his plan of attack should be. Vincent expected him to contact Harkness, gain his trust, and then get his story. And under most circumstances, throwing a disposable researcher at a problem was the tried and true way of either getting results or winnowing the field through survival of the fittest. But Vincent also assumed Harkness was an Immortal.

Well, Methos had spun more elaborate yarns in his life. Putting together a mock dossier on this mysterious immortal would not pose a problem. And, as an Immortal, Methos was intrigued by the idea of Harkness. Inexplicably, Harkness existed. Methos itched to know why.

No, this would not pose a problem at all, Methos thought. And it didn't.

It was easier to find Captain Jack Harkness than Methos had anticipated. No careful prowl through Cardiff was required. Harkness met him at the door to his hotel room. Harkness was leaning against the door, hands in his pockets, but Methos didn't mistake the stance. This was closer to an arrest than to a welcome.

"Buy you a drink." Harkness said. It was not a question.

Grateful he had put his sword in his coat at the airport instead of leaving it in his bag, Methos nodded. "Let me put this inside first, Captain." Harkness's sheer presence confirmed that he was not an Immortal, but Methos supposed a sword through the neck would inconvenience him, at the very least.

"I can get it." Harkness stood up straight and offered his hand. Methos gave him his bag. Harkness opened the door and tossed the bag inside. Then he closed the door and Methos heard the lock click. "No explosives this time, Ben?"

_Ben._ Ah. Methos smiled tightly and tried to look confused and embarrassed. "I'm sorry, you have me confused with somebody else. I'm Adam Pierson."

Harkness didn't seem surprised. "Nice name. When did you start using it?"

"I'm named for my father, an archeologist--"

"There's no one here. No one's listening. I checked." Harkness crossed his arms. "C'mon, Adam. Do we have to do this here or can we do this over drinks?"

"I've never actually met you," Methos said delicately. He knew how far he was from the exit, but he wasn't sure if he could out run Harkness. Harkness looked sturdy, but quick. And he was clearly armed. Methos would prefer not to have to revive in a public hallway. He had spent ten years creating this persona; he was not interested in throwing it away over a case of mistaken identity.

"Okay, we'll do it over drinks." Harkness held out an arm. "I'll escort you there. I'm sure you don't remember the way."

Methos did not see the need to continue this argument in public. He allowed himself to be led, all the time studying Harkness. He was certain he'd never met the man. He'd spent the last two hundred years keeping his distance from his own kind. He could not feel this man in his head and so it was possible that he had run into him once and simply didn't remember it, but he didn't think so. Harkness seemed the type that Methos would not forget.

On the way, Harkness kept up a low, steady steam of chatter about local sports. He kept the cover up until they entered a dark restaurant off of an alley. Harkness ducked through curtains, flipped something over, and then waved Methos through ahead of him.

Methos put his foot out, expecting a stair, then fell.

He twisted into the fall, automatically anticipating a long drop, and then swore as he hit the staircase and tumbled down. He hit the ground and moved into a crouch. He had his sword out and pointed at Harkness before Harkness finished walking down the staircase.

"Nice sword," Harkness said. He unbuttoned his coat, then held his hands out, palms up, and Methos could see his gun, still in the shoulder holster. "Put it away. I'm believing you. For now."

Harkness pointed with his chin to a solitary table in the corner. "Sit."

 

\---

 

They brought the god in and chained him to a table.

The god looked cheerful and he waved his hand at Methos in greeting. He was dressed in fine fabrics, exotic beyond Methos's dreams. He had never seen their like. And in such colors.

"Wonderful to see you again, Adam," the god said. "Wow, how long has it been now? Few hundred years? Few thousand?"

Methos huddled himself against the corner and stared as one of his captors laid an axe next to the door.

He knew this game. Only one of them could leave this room. He would not be let out until the other god was dead. The god did not feel right in his head, but there was still power there. That was all that was required.

The god's hands were chained together. As soon as his captors had left the room, Methos stood. He took the axe and weighed it in his hands.

"Don't suppose you're good enough with that to cut the chain?" The god went on. "No, suppose not. Oh, well. Too much to hope for, right? My own fault. I don't get into trouble like this all the time, Adam, promise. No, don't start looking at me like that. This time isn't my fault. I can explain."

They must have starved Methos more than he'd thought. He had no idea who this god was, or who Adam was. But the god thought he knew him. And, though he made no sense, Methos wanted to trust him. Wanted to trust this stranger. This was not right.

Methos swallowed and tried to find the energy to speak. "Who sent you?" he asked.

"Why, myself, of course," the god said. "I was just passing through and thought I'd take a look around. I haven't been to this era before. Well, I've been to this era, but not on this planet, or this timeline. Last time, there were still dinosaurs." The god nodded. "Different timeline, that one. Had to patch that reality up. Still, not the worst idea I've ever had. The execution was poor, but the idea behind it, quite genius. I could probably do it better now, what with all the practice I've had. It's a shame I can't cross my own timeline to clean up my messes. The universe would be less complicated if I could redo my first couple years at this. Did I ever tell you the time I made a terrible mess of causality? The Master never let me live that one down."

It was at this point that Methos brought the axe down and cut off the god's head.

He knew this game. He had done this time and time before, and he knew the pain that awaited him. He dropped the axe and moved as far from the body as he could. He knelt in the corner, awaiting the inevitable and bracing himself for the onslaught.

When it came, it was nothing like Methos had ever seen. The quickening shot out in all directions, and it glowed. Methos covered his eyes and held his breath, waiting for it to slice through and kill him.

But then the quickening bent and retreated. It took the chains with it.

The god coughed hard and sat up. Methos tried to retreat further, but his back was pressed hard against the cell wall. The god rubbed his left eye with the back of his right hand, then patted himself down. He wore a different face. "Hello," he said. "That wasn't nice, Adam."

Methos shook his head desperately. His nails dug against the dirt floor as he scrambled for purchase to escape the approaching god.

The god crouched down. He reached out and touched the healed-over cut on Methos's forehead. "Hello," he said again. "I'm the Doctor. And you are?"

"You called me Adam," Methos said, not able to keep the terror from his voice.

"Yes, but that's not who you are in this century." The god took a cloth out his sleeve and swiped it across Methos's nose. "There, that's better. All cleaned up. We should get out of here before they decide I need more sacrifices."

Methos let himself be pulled to his feet. The god took a silver rod out from beneath his clothes and pointed it at the door. The door opened.

"C'mon," the god said when Methos did not follow him immediately. "Trust me, you don't want to be here when they come back. And what are you calling yourself these days? You never did say."

Methos let the god take his hand and start leading him through the night. "I am Methos," he said after the god suddenly stopped and started waving the silver rod through the air.

"Ah," the god said flatly. He tilted his head and stared at Methos. "That you. Well. Should have come a few hundred years from now. It would have been better for the both of us. Save me the trouble of regenerating without warning, save you the trouble of killing me. The old me. Yes, would have been better." He titled his head to the other side, but did not pause in his ramble. "Or rather not, on second thought. Nope, I've decided, I like this you the best. You're the best you. Right you are. You're Methos, that's that."

The god bobbed his head up and down at him and, after a long pause, Methos returned the gesture.

"Say," the god continued, leaning in, "any brothers about? Anyone I should worry about? I'd take you away, but then I really would be destroying the fabric of space time."

The god sounded certain about that, but still regretful. Methos broke eye contact long enough to look up at the stars, wondering when they would be coming down to strike the earth. The god clasped him on the shoulder like an old friend.

"Unless I brought you back," the god went on, as if taking both sides of the argument was the most normal thing in the world for him to do, "and didn't let you remember any of it, but I don't do that unless I really have to, and, well, you probably won't explode. Probably."

There it was. The threat. Methos had expected that. He had forced the god to change his shape and reveal himself. Why hadn't the god killed him yet? He was going to. Any minute now. He would call the stars down and strike Methos truly dead. But the god was holding him firmly. There was no escape from this. Methos sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard to keep from begging.

"Would that count as decapitation? No, never mind, of course you don't know that yet. You don't start experimenting with that until, when did you say? Victorian era? Seventh dynasty of King Tim? But you wouldn't know that either. Sorry, sorry, not usually this callous and cruel, you must feel as if I'm taunting you dreadfully, but, really, Methos, did you have to cut my head off? That's not a pleasant way to die, I'll have you know. Some warning would have been nice. I could have said goodbye to my hair cut. I spent a lot of time and effort on that hair cut. We had some quality time together. I should have liked to say goodbye."

The god bobbed his head again. Methos stared at his neck.

"You must forgive me, Methos, I'm really not usually this--" he coughed hard and leaned on Methos's shoulder to steady himself. "You've met me at a strange time. All your fault, of course, but not to worry. Not to worry. It will all sort itself out. I was getting tired of that old body anyway. Had it too long. Time for a change!" He pointed somewhere in the dark. "Onward, my best Methos! Onward towards eternity!"

He took one step forward and fell flat on his face.

Methos held his breath, waiting for the god to jump back up again. When he didn't, Methos knelt down, grabbed the god's magic rod, and ran off into the night, as far away from the god as he could get.

 

\---

 

Harkness rested his elbows on the table. "And that was when he left me behind."

Methos nodded. "On a space station," he repeated.

"You don't believe me?" Harkness affected a look of horror. "And after I bought you a drink first, too."

"You've been a terrible gentleman, Captain," Methos replied. "My story is nowhere near as dramatic."

"Oh?"

"We never even left the city."

 

\---

 

"I think I've finally figured you out." The speaker jumped down off the fourth step and landed, knees bent, in a cloud of dust and dirt.

Methos had his hand on his sword at the first word of Latin and had it unsheathed by the time the stranger's boots hit the ground. When the man looked up and Methos recognized the face, he froze. Then, deliberately, he did not put the sword down. "What are you?"

He had not aged a day in two thousand years. Even his clothing remained the same as Methos remembered.

"Don't you want to know what your problem is?" the Doctor asked. "I promise I'll be brief this time. You won't have cause to abandon me to the cannibals again." He was smiling, but Methos understood. It wasn't an invitation, it was an order.

"What is my problem?" Methos asked.

"Don't mind if I do," the Doctor said, clearly enjoying Methos's hostility. He took a cup from a shelf, poured water into it, then sat down. He put his feet up on Methos's table and prodded a manuscript with his boot. "Stop trying alchemy. It's just a waste of time."

"And that is my problem?" He'd be damned if he let this man terrify him again. Methos sat down across the table from the Doctor and met his gaze, forcing himself to be calm. He wasn't a child, scared of his own shadow and men who could be reborn in a quickening. He'd play along, but he would not die without a fight. Not this time.

"No. That's just your endless frustration. Take some free advice and save yourself the aggravation." The Doctor pointed his fourth finger at Methos. "Your problem. Yes. Your problem is that you see your faults in everyone you meet." The Doctor looked very satisfied at himself for that conclusion. "You think I'm going to do to you what you'd do to me if you had me at your mercy. You have a very limited imagination."

Methos swallowed hard, but did not look away. "And you won't?" He had twice wronged this man. Of course he would take his vengeance. And so much time had passed since the crime. He must have spent two millennia dreaming of revenge. The pain would be great, and he would be lucky if the man would take his head before a year was gone. But he would not fear him. Methos was finished with fearing his conquerors. They could not touch him, but only hurt him. No one could touch him now.

"What did the centuries do to you?" the Doctor asked, not unkindly, then moved on. "If you really must know," he said quickly, then launched immediately into a discussion of the limits of alchemy, his words coming faster and faster until all Methos could focus on was the Doctor's lips, "and that's why it's doomed to fail. I'll give you a few treatises on the subject. You'd have to change the laws of physics first, which would be going too far out of the way for an end result you don't have much use for in the first place."

Methos found himself relaxing, staring into those deep-set green eyes.

"And if it's eternal life you're looking for, well, you've already got it. Mostly. So long as you don't go and destroy a timeline by getting yourself killed, you're set until, well, actually, I can't tell you that yet. But you'll find out. Circle of life and all that, what goes around comes around, no, wait, that's wrong. Sorry, never mind. But the point is, the point is," the Doctor grabbed Methos's arm and slammed him face down onto the table. "The point is, you aren't the man I knew, but I can't hurt you, because you'll remember this in three thousand years and I need you not to hate me or else the universe really will come to an end. So."

Methos closed his eyes, but before he could gather his strength to fight the Doctor off, the Doctor slammed him down again, then grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and held him down.

"I wasn't done. You see, Adam, you have a very serious problem right now. Me. And it would not be in your best interest to keep digging after hitting rock bottom."

"Just get on with it," Methos growled.

"I am." The Doctor wrapped something around Methos's wrists, then dragged him forward a few steps and tossed him through the air. Methos landed prone on a metal landing, but before he could try to free his hands and escape, he heard a door slam behind him.

"Here we are," the Doctor said. Methos kept his head down as the Doctor jumped over him towards a dais. "Can't run from me now, so we're going to have that chat. And isn't that just like you."

Methos tugged against the cuffs, then forgot to keep struggling as he looked up. He swallowed hard twice, then lowered his eyes again. No. He was not here. He didn't know where here was, but he would keep his composure while he bargained for his life. He would not let this god distract him. He would not let this god intimidate him. And he would not beg.

He stared at the metal beneath him and ignored all he could see below it, then said slowly. "What are you?"

"Time Lord," the Doctor said. "And you're an Immortal. Boy, aren't I glad we got that cleared up and out of the way. Or else we might have had a really horrible and awkward misunderstanding with you trying to kill me. Tell me, Methos, do you try to kill everything you don't understand? What a boring life you must lead."

Methos's hands clenched into fists and his nails dug into his skin as he forcibly reminded himself what cost he would pay for making this god even more angry at him. "Not everything," he said evenly.

"No, that's true. Sometimes you only obsess about it to the detriment of your sanity." The Doctor propped his feet up on a stool and looked down at Methos through a triangle of his fingers. "Of which you still have a staggering amount. I'd call that odd, except you're, well, you. You wouldn't have lasted this long if you were insane."

"Thank you," Methos said.

"Not sure that was a compliment, mind you. I wouldn't take it as one. Except that you're older than me already by now. Strange, that." The Doctor leaned in further and seemed to balance on nothing at all. "I could go back and meet you when you were younger than me. Strange to think of you ever being younger than me. But what's incremental time but an overly simplistic method for tracking these things? In a sense, I'll always be older than you and you'll always be older than me. And that's not to get too paradoxical about it. Take those blue squids you used to like. An entire civilization built around the idea that time likes to change direction every so often. Which it does, of course, but the point being, it usually can't. Except for those squids. They tried, must love them, they did try. And then their sun exploded. Very sad."

Methos had nearly managed to free himself from the cuffs. The Doctor jumped up and then hit a lever and Methos's arms were free.

"Now sit," the Doctor said sternly, wagging a finger at him. "The door's locked, so you can't make a run for it. I'll give you a guided tour later, if you like. But for now, sit, stay."

Methos sat.

"Good boy. Now, where was I?"

"Squids," Methos said. He could wait. The longer he could keep the Doctor talking, the more time there would be for the Doctor to tire of him. Once the Doctor lost interest, Methos could run and never be followed.

"Yes, right, of course," the Doctor said. "Poor bastards. I keep meaning to go back and fix that. Maybe put a timer or a clock so they'll know to recharge the back-up generator. Except that they don't use linear time, so how will they know? How will they know? Puzzling. But that's teetotal civilizations for you. I always did assume that a lack of appreciation for hallucinogens showed a serious case of mental illness in mammals. You've got to use that brain of yours for something, because you're clearly not using it for thinking. Because what were they thinking, building their naval base around a dying solar system? Yes, it was cheap and saved on labor costs, but so stupid. Such a waste, in the grand scheme of things. And I probably can't help. The TARDIS won't let me get too close to that kind of radiation. Makes her sneeze."

"TARDIS?" Methos sounded out the word.

"Where we are." The Doctor waved around the room. "Meet the TARDIS. She's my time machine and spaceship." He patted the console like a favored pet. "She might be older than you, speaking of the grand scheme of things."

"She's alive?"

"Of course she is!" The Doctor said. "You don't think I'd fly around in a dead ship, do you? All dead trees and bits of…well, whatever they're building those ships out there out of. What century is this, again?" He looked over his shoulder at something, then spun around on his chair. "Sorry for the wait," he said, learning in, "I meant to catch you earlier, but the TARDIS decided she liked this century. I hope she doesn't get fixated. I've only just weaned her off her addiction to 21st century London." He looked worried. "You don't think she's only going to replace one addiction with a different one? Oh, dear. That would be terrible."

Methos thought he understood most of that. "No one likes this century," he said. "Not even the warlords."

The Doctor looked appeased by that. "Good, good. So we can leave this place behind and return here nevermore." He rubbed his hands together. "So, Methos. Where do you want to go? I know I promised you Barcelona, but I'm all Barcelona'd out. And I won't take you to any of the post-Timian civilizations. Timelines, you know. But other than that, sky's the limit. No, right, yes. End of the universe's the limit. So, where to?"

Methos clenched his fingers into a fist. "You're taking me away?"

"Oh, for!" The Doctor hit a button and the door opened behind them. "You're not under arrest, Adam. You're free to walk right out of here and go back to your tiny little life translating tiny little useless pieces of wrong wrong _wrong_ information. I won't stop you, I never could. So you can go if you want. I'm all lectured out, and then you stare at me like you think I'm going to _hit_ you. I hate this damn century, Adam. I really do."

Methos stood. "Thank you for letting me go," he said carefully. He bowed low, but did not drop his eyes. He wasn't willing to take his eyes off the Doctor. Not when he seemed like he was going to lash out at any second. "Thank you for your kindness."

"So you're leaving, then?" The Doctor frowned. "But there's nothing out there for you now. It's just peace and quiet and peace and quiet. That's too boring to appeal to even you. Come on. Isn't there somewhere you want to go? Some place? Some time?"

Methos shook his head. He wasn't going to spend a second longer in this Doctor's company than he had to. He knew danger when he saw it and he was staring straight at it. "I like the peace and I like the quiet." He met the Doctor's eyes. "It's better than the alternative." He didn't say anything more. If the Doctor really did know him, then he knew enough to know what that meant.

"Dammit, Adam! You really don't need to solve every problem great and small by running away from it and letting time take care of the details." The Doctor ran his hands through his hair. "This isn't--it's your wildest dreams! A chance in a spaceship! You can wait for all your enemies to die, but instead of counting the time in some rat-infested basement, you can take a vacation, sip some drink on some beach on some planet. Take an afternoon off, come back in a century. Or take a century and come back in an afternoon, I don't really care."

Methos shook his head. "I won't be your prisoner, Doctor. Not willingly." He'd had too much of that for millennia.

"But it's not like that at all," the Doctor pleaded. "Come with me, Adam. I'll show you eternity. And I promise, I'll get you back in time to enjoy the Renaissance."

 

\---

 

"I don't get drunk," Harkness said by way of apology. "I stopped right about the time I stopped being able to die."

"I didn't," Methos said, and drained the glass. "Take it from me, eternity is too damn long as it is."

"Any port in a storm?" Harkness said, almost sadly.

"You take the help you can get," Methos said. "If you want to talk about things you're going to have to do to survive--"

"I already know."

"You're how old?" Methos opened another bottle. "Two hundred?"

"Depends how you count it."

"We're just ships passing in the night, Harkness." Methos tossed the cork into the corner. "All of us immortals, no matter how you want to define that. Even the Doctor. Take your comfort where you can, or you're never going to last."

Harkness snorted. "Somehow, I can't imagine the Doctor agreeing."

"Yes, well, he has a time machine. We don't." Methos tipped the bottle back and drank down a fourth of it. "End of the day, it's just you and the calendar. Day after day. We have to live like that. He doesn't."

"I had a time machine once," Harkness said. "And you're right. It beats the hell out of the slow path. But you get to know people better this way."

"When you're stuck with them," Methos allowed. "But then they're gone, and you're still here. And from what you've told me," he continued, "you're always going to be here. Face it, Harkness. You're somebody else's story. And until you run into that damn Doctor again, that's all you're ever going to be. Just that ship passing through people's lives. Or them passing through yours."

"And what about you, Pierson? You somebody else's story, too?"

Methos shook his head. "I'm not the one treating the Doctor's favorite century like a railway stop where the train is always five minutes away."

"No?" Harkness crossed his arms. "So what are you doing? Just surviving? You sit there and you tell me the Doctor made you an offer and you turned it down. Frankly, I'm pretty sure you're not even sane."

Methos put the bottle down. He cracked his knuckles. "Fine one to talk, Captain."

"Or did you think he just didn't mean it?" Harkness gave Methos his best leveling stare. "I can't figure you out, Pierson. You're telling me you said no. You're telling me you slammed the TARDIS door in the Doctor's face. You expect me to believe this?"

"Believe what you want," Methos said. He stood up. "The offer was genuine. I know that. And I was tempted, of course," he said. "Anyone would be."

Harkness nodded.

"We, ah, shared a certain similarity of temperament." Methos smiled a little at the memory. "It would not have been difficult to fall into his world."

"It's not," Harkness said. "It's not at all."

Methos nodded. At the door, he turned. "It was tempting," he said. "But this is _my_ life. And I won't be just another one of the Doctor's stories."

 

\---

 

_Epilogue:_

Methos was running flat out, dodging left and right, not stopping to listen if he was still being followed. He had started running as soon as the newscaster in the square had said "immortals" and hadn't stopped since. He knew whose face would be on the monitor and he wasn't waiting. Someone in the bar had spotted him. That was enough. The secret was out.

If he rushed, he might make the first boat off of Wichita.

He skidded to a halt in an alley and pressed his palm to the wall. He pulled his phone off his wrist and pressed four buttons, catching his breath as he skimmed weather reports and reservations. It would take a half hour for the money transfer to go through, but if he'd have a better shot at the border in his own tug. A hired captain might turn around for enough money.

Behind him, someone dropped a penny to the ground. Methos had his gun out and pointed before he even fully saw him.

He was dressed in a half-duster, his clothes a smattering of the last four centuries, but Methos lowered the gun immediately when he saw his face.

"Doctor," he said. "Dare I ask?"

The Doctor blinked. "Ask what?" He picked the penny up and put it in a pocket. "I'm not here looking for you, if that's what you mean. You can keep on your nightly exercise."

"My nightly what?" Methos laughed. This was his lucky day. "Doctor, I need to hitch a ride."

"All right." The Doctor strolled over. "To where?"

"When." Methos put his hand on the Doctor's elbow. "Didn't you tell me I had to help you save the world?"

"Oh, probably," the Doctor said airily. "That is, I'm sure I will someday." They turned the corner to where the TARDIS was parked.

The Doctor unlocked the door. "By the way," he asked over his shoulder as he led Methos inside, "did I happen to mention _which_ world?"


End file.
